


The Tarnished Badge

by Eligh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amputee Phil, BAMF Phil, Brewmaster Phil, Lots of Beer, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil spends his days limping around his brewery, brewing delicious malty and hoppy goodness for his friends and neighbors. He's content. The scruffy, blue-eyed nerfherder that's Shield Securities' latest hire is no cause for alarm, because they're just friends. Really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tarnished Badge

Phillip Coulson was many things, but a patient bartender was not one of them.

This fact wouldn’t, in most circumstances, be an issue in the slightest. Say Phil had chosen as his profession something _non_ -alcohol related: a barista, a lawyer, an accountant, a mob fixer, a writer, a high school principal, a secret agent— _literally anything else_ , but no, noooo, nonono.

No, Phil _had_ to decide that there was nothing more interesting in _life_ than the chemistry of water and yeast and malt and barley and hops combining into something better than the sum of their parts. And then he _had_ to make friends with Marcus-the-Enabler, who had somehow convinced him that opening this brewery was a good idea, and _that_ had resulted in this current clusterfuck of a situation: Phil tending bar on a Friday night and gritting his teeth in the fakest of all smiles while pouring pint after pint of his _sweat_ and _tears_ for ungrateful little college-aged shits who wouldn’t know a kölsch from a stout if he forced his locally-sourced, organic hops down their whiny little _throats_.

He may have been overreacting. Or not. Homicide was never an overreaction, not when beer was involved.

“No Bud Light?” his latest ‘customer’ lamented. Phil took a breath and fantasized about throwing the kid out of his bar by his salmon-colored popped collar. Into a dumpster. Lined with broken glass. And lemon juice.

“No,” he growled. “This is a microbrewery, you little—”

“Try the pilsner,” interrupted an unfamiliar voice from somewhere in the crowd. “It’s got a similar bitterness to Budweiser, but it’s smooth and flavorful and utterly lacking in the taste of horse piss. Expand your horizons, man.” The speaker shouldered his way through the crowd of twenty-somethings swarming the bartop and shot Phil an understanding smile before he clapped the bro on the shoulder and gave the kid his full attention. “Pro Tip: don’t insult the brewmaster.”

Popped-Collar frowned and seemed about to say something else, but Phil ignored him gratefully in favor of focusing on the other guy. Messy dishwater-blond hair, dark blue-green eyes, muscles accented nicely by a tight white t-shirt, low-hanging dark-wash jeans, and a hand holding loosely onto what looked like the remnants of either the stout or the porter. “Children,” the guy lamented, sighing and inclining his head toward the teeming masses. Phil nodded and whipped his bar rag over his shoulder.

“Believe me, I know.”

“Hey,” Popped-Collar protested. His face was red with too much alcohol, his top lip unappealingly sweaty. Phil continued to ignore him; it was delicious and exactly what he needed right now. He tipped his head instead toward his new favorite distraction. Muscles smiled.

“Can I get you a refill?” Phil asked, already reaching beneath the bar to pull a fresh glass. He emerged with a flourish, the perfectly weighted solidity of his pints making bar tricks easy. It never hurt to make glass dance.

The guy eyed the heaving crowd around him. “Hm. As good as the beer is, I was sorta told that this place was a hidden gem. What’s with the frat party?”

Phil sighed in aggravation and began to absently roll the empty glass between his palms. “Write up in the paper unfortunately timed with the new semester.” He glared around the packed room in distaste. “Hopefully it’ll die down.”

Muscles grinned suddenly, apparently finding Phil’s anti-social tendencies amusing. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a bartender complaining about too many patrons.”

Maybe the night’s plentiful annoyances were making Phil reckless. Maybe Muscles’ sharp hazel eyes were some sort of hypnotic tool. Maybe that smile was something Phil could see himself getting addicted to, at least for the short-term.

Or maybe Phil just didn’t give a fuck.

He leaned across the bartop. “You stick around and listen to me complain, gorgeous, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

The grin gracing Muscles’ face turned sharp and hungry. “I think I’ll have that refill, then,” he murmured, just loud enough to be heard over the dull roar of the packed house. “The porter, please.”

There was six bucks in cash on the bartop when Phil turned around from filling the pint. “Thank you for your custom,” he drawled, locking eyes with Muscles and relinquishing the glass slowly. Muscles stared right back, his lower lip trapped between his teeth, and Phil thought that perhaps his didn’t hate this night quite so much.

Of course, life for the aggravated brewmaster/bartender was never easy, and Phil didn’t lay eyes on Muscles the rest of the night, though he _did_ have the inestimable pleasure of serving Popped-Collar and his buddies for the next several hours. By the time he finally let Melinda and Skye declare last call, he was sagging from exhaustion, his thigh was aching, and he’d decided that it would probably be a better call to just raze the place to the fucking ground instead of facing the possibility of another night like tonight.

“I’m never doing that again,” he groused, glaring as the last group of kids swayed and staggered their way out. He’d gathered more keys behind the bar than he could ever remember having done before.

Phil’s few regulars—and he’d get them a pint on the house for sticking through tonight’s travesty—seemed to take a collective breath and unhuddle themselves from their back corner. Phil glanced over, assessing his friends’ states of mind.

The Koenig triplets raised simultaneous glasses and inclined their heads, in good humor as always, while Fitz looked more relaxed now that he could creep out from under the protection of Mack’s wider frame. Simmons and Trip had taken one look at the crowd from the door some hours ago and turned on their heels after sending Phil an apologetic look, so that usual foursome was down two tonight. Maria was looking unreasonably pleased with herself, having spent the night exuding such an air of homicide that Phil was positive she’d been the only person in the bar with enough space to breathe, while Steve and Bucky had taken to throwing elbows whenever the fratboys got too close, and also looked perversely cheerful. To round off the usuals, Phil was fairly certain he’d seen Bobbi and Hunter earlier, but they were currently MIA. He hoped he wouldn’t have to chase them out of the bathrooms again.

Speaking of bathrooms, the swinging door leading into the hallway squeaked and out stepped—oh. Muscles. And he was just as attractive as Phil had first thought.

“Someone should hit them with a hose,” he said idly, jerking his thumb over his shoulder toward the bathrooms. Phil sighed.

“Mel?”

Melinda was already walking, her face one part amused, two parts Serious Business. “On it.”

Muscles snickered a little and ambled over to the bar. “I’d say they were a coupla ingrates, but Hunter’s my ride, so…”

Phil smiled wide and easy. “They’re still ingrates, ride or not.” He nodded toward the loose gathering of souls at the end of his bar. “Haven’t seen you around the usual crowd before.”

“I’m new. Started at Shield Securities last week,” Muscles told him, leaning against the bartop. It caused his biceps to flex hypnotically, and it took Phil a moment (who was he kidding, significantly more than a _moment_ ) to tear his eyes away. Though judging by the smirk Muscles was sending in his direction when Phil finally looked up, his noticing wasn’t at all unwelcome. Muscles extended a hand. “I’m Clint.”

“Phil.” The hand that grasped his own was warm and calloused, with a firm grip that made Phil’s stomach clench.

The moment was broken by a muffled yelp from the direction of the bathrooms, and Phil dropped Clint’s hand, unable to hold back his grin.

“They’re gonna get the cops called on them one of these days,” Clint observed sagely, and gave a condescending little wave when Hunter and Bobbi emerged from behind the swinging door, Melinda close on their heels. The crew at the end of the bar broke into spontaneous applause; one of the Koenigs let out a wolf whistle. Hunter frowned a little at their reception, his blush intensifying when he saw how quickly the bar had cleared out, but Bobbi just grinned and shot the room two raised fingers.

“Fuck you all very much,” she announced.

“Go home, Bobbi,” Skye called, also grinning. “You’re drunk.”

“Hunter’s not, though,” Clint murmured just loud enough that Phil was the only one to hear. “They do this often?”

Phil pulled his rag from off his shoulder and made a show of wiping down the bar. “Just on the days that end in ‘Y’.”

Clint looked vaguely horrified. “What have I gotten myself into?”

“Whatever it is,” Phil promised, “I will make sure you are sufficiently hydrated for the duration.”

~

“So, the Tarnished Badge?” Clint asked the next Friday, licking foam from his lip in the most distracting manner possible. Though it was still unusually busy, the bar was much quieter than last week, and Phil was glad of it. He rested his hip against the bartop and pointedly ignored the dudebro trying to get his attention from down the bar.  

“Your boss’ idea,” he began. Clint lifted an eyebrow while Phil nodded, making a vague gesture that somehow managed to encompass both himself and idea of ‘Nick Fury.’ Clint’s eyebrow remained skeptical, so Phil expanded. “Nick and I are friends. We were in ROTC together back in high school, and everyone thought we’d stick together.” He shrugged. “And we did, for a while, but landmines are a fickle mistress, and minus half a leg and an eye between us, he stayed on while I went home.”

Clint spent half a second looking alarmed before he glanced abortively down past the bartop toward Phil’s legs, but Phil, as always, told himself that he didn’t much care. The prosthetic he wore to work was beyond state of the art; bonafide StarkTech. 98% of the time you wouldn’t even realize his actual leg cut off just above the knee, though he had to admit that he wore a running leg if he was ever inclined to go for the startle factor. Or if he needed to move quickly.

To cover the moment of awkwardness, Phil busied himself wiping down a few glasses that were wet from the washer and then stacking them under the bar, all while talking quickly. “So sans military purpose, and feeling a little adrift, I fell back on old habits and got back into brewing. I bounced around while he finished his tour—just tended bar at half-a-dozen disreputable establishments and played with homebrew. Eventually I got hired as a brewmaster’s apprentice at one of the other microbreweries around here, and I worked my way up while he completed his tour and then founded Shield. After a couple years of his being back, he harassed me enough into starting up my own shop, and…” he gestured around to his space. “Here we are.”

Clint blinked, clearly deciding not to draw any more attention to Phil’s big reveal. “And Fury’s the reason that two-thirds of your clientele are cops or feds or security assholes like me,” he concluded, now smiling. It was honest and unforced, and Phil felt the slight unclench that he always felt when he told someone new about his leg. There were precious few people that he’d met who’d reacted like Clint just had, and every one of them was currently shooting the shit at the opposite end of the bar.

“I wouldn’t call you an asshole,” Phil disclaimed, grinning. “Though I can’t say the same for the rabble with which you consort.”

As if on cue, the oblivious heathens whom Phil unwisely called his friends, erupted into laughter, and oh, look, they’d sucked Skye into their disintegrating orbit.

“A.C.,” she called, mid-pull from a tap that was decidedly not supposed to be pulled until tomorrow, “I tapped the barley wine.” The usual crowd all saluted him with full pints, because apparently Skye thought that he wouldn’t notice that this particular beer was supposed to be served in 10oz pours.  

Phil pinched his nose between his forefinger and thumb. “Goddammit.” And when he looked up, Clint was doing a very bad job of not appearing interested in the dark red hoppy goodness that Skye was offering with a wide smile. Phil watched as he accepted the pint with a half-sheepish smile.

“What,” Clint defended, his eyes fluttering shut in pleasure as he took his first sip. “This is some good fucking beer, Phil.”

Phil gave up and poured himself a drink.

~

The bar was back to its usual ebb and flow after a few more weeks, the frat kids apparently having decided that it was too far out of the way to be worth their while. Phil _may_ have encouraged that conclusion by calling in a couple favors with his friends, and you’d be surprised how the presence of a bevy of military and cop-types dissuaded drunken debauchery. Nick was especially useful in that capacity. _Apparently_ bros disliked being stared at by leather-wearing, glowering, eyepatch-clad, badass motherfuckers. Who knew?

“This is much, _much_ better,” Clint said, having appeared at the bartop as if by magic. Phil grinned; he hadn’t seen the usuals roll in, and it really was fortuitous timing, as he hadn’t even planned on tending tonight. But he’d stepped in when Mel called from the side of the road, betrayed by a pile of broken glass and her left front tire.

“Early night?” Phil asked, glancing around, and huh. No one else from Shield was here yet.

“For me it is,” Clint said with an easy nod. “I’ve got a client starting this weekend, so Fury gave me yesterday and today off.” He glanced around the bar—just now starting to fill up at 5:20—and shrugged. “Figured hey, it’s Friday, and everyone’ll be here, and—” here a slow grin spread over his face as he ducked his head “—and well, _you’re_ here, so that’s a bonus.”

Phil shook his head good-naturedly and pulled out a glass, letting the comment slide. It’d been weeks since Clint had first stepped foot in the Badge, but all this flirting hadn’t amounted to anything. Phil didn’t blame him, not really, because Clint was young and hot and muscled, and who _didn’t_ flirt with the occasional bartender, especially when they flirted back? There was no harm in it. Phil got to have a few minutes of feeling good about himself and Clint got heavy pours. Everyone won.

“Let me get you a drink,” he offered, and Clint smiled at him. It was a dazzling smile. “What’re you feeling today?”

Clint glanced at the board that was covered in Phil’s chickenscratch. His beer offerings changed pretty much weekly, though he tried to keep a couple things regular. Clint so far hadn’t gone for the regulars, though—the pils, the brown, or the plain jane IPA—instead opting for something new every time. He seemed to favor the darker brews, but that could have been a product of the season. Not that Phil was keeping track of what kind of drink Clint liked. Really.

“Lemme try the chocolate milk stout,” Clint decided after a moment more of perusal. Phil nodded, but then put the pint glass away and pulled out a 4oz taster.

“I have a proposition,” he told Clint, smiling at the incredulous look the tiny glass was meriting. “Try it, tell me if you like it.” He filled the glass two-thirds full and handed it over.

Clint stared at it for a second, then shrugged and brought the glass up, sniffing pretentiously and swirling the liquid a little before tipping it back. He made a show of swishing it around his mouth, too, while Phil looked on, amused. Clint brought the glass down with a gentle clink to the bartop. “Like candy,” he pronounced. “Delicious as always, Phil. Now can I get a real pour?”

“You like root beer floats when you were a kid?” Phil asked instead, and savored the look of utter confusion that passed over Clint’s face.

“…Sure? Not that I got many, but who didn’t like ‘em?”

Phil nodded, pleased. “Then let me just—” he bent down and rummaged underneath the bar for a moment, returning with two oversized 20oz goblet-style glasses. “Just a second,” he told Clint, who was bemusedly watching from his perch on the other side of the bar. Clint gave him a gracious go-ahead gesture, rested one elbow on the bar, and dropped his cheek into his palm to wait.

Phil turned and limped into the walk-in freezer behind the bar—he’d been standing too long today, and his thigh was aching where the prosthetic met skin—but returned just a moment later bearing fruit. Well, not actually fruit, but a tub of vanilla ice cream.

A quick scoop and a long pour later, he placed the goblet smack in front of Clint, whose eyebrows had climbed during the whole procedure and now seemed in danger of lifting straight off his face.

“Beer float,” Phil announced.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Clint snorted, but took the spoon Phil offered and dug in immediately, if cautiously, careful to get both beer and ice cream in that first spoonful. Phil watched with no small amount of pleasure as Clint then made an orgasmic noise and started eating with gusto. “Holy fuck, Phil,” he groaned around a mouthful of ice cream. “This is quite possibly the best thing ever.”

Phil nodded, pleased, and turned to make himself one, too. Of course it was the best dessert ever. “You be careful with that,” he warned as he scooped his own ice cream. “It’s usually 8.5%, but this batch came out closer to 10.”

“Of course it is,” Clint laughed. His float was already almost half gone. “’Cause nothing says ‘Phil Coulson’ like desserts that could kill you.”

Phil shrugged, unrepentant.

~

“Ugh, _today_ ,” Clint groaned, sliding into place at what was rapidly becoming his usual stool at the end of the bar. Phil looked up distractedly from where he was counting down the register, and then did a double-take when he realized what time it was.

“I already announced last call,” he said cautiously, but Clint just waved him off.

“Don’t care. I just needed to be somewhere where every single person doesn’t hate my guts.”

“Well I certainly don’t hate you,” Phil told him, earning himself a wan smile. Phil closed the register, still woefully uncounted. He sauntered over and leaned against the bar across from Clint. “Want to vent to your friendly neighborhood barkeep?”

Clint sighed dramatically. “I can’t. _Client confidentiality_ , you know, bleh, bullshit.” He paused, and then exaggeratedly glanced from left to right. They were alone at the bar; the last actual patrons were a trio of giggling 30-something women gathered around something playing on one of their tablets.

Phil leaned in. “I have taken a sacred oath of bartender-patron confidentiality.” Clint smirked, but Phil smirked wider. “I also have level eight clearance with Shield Securities.”

“What,” Clint demanded, reeling back momentarily but recovering himself with a wide, disbelieving grin. Phil shrugged.

“I told you, Nick’s my friend.” He paused then, purely for dramatic effect. “And I consult, from time to time.”

Clint shook his head. “You are just _full_ of surprises, aren’t you, Phil?”

Phil tipped an imaginary hat. “That I am, Barton.” He doubted very much that Clint missed his using of Clint’s surname—which he’d never officially been told—but Clint just snorted in amusement and rested his elbows on the bar.

“Fine. I’m on loan to a company that starts with an ‘H’ and rhymes with ‘scammer,’” he told Phil, rolling his eyes. “And they are _terrible_. Shoddy products, incompetent security, _idiot_ CEO…”

Phil nodded consolingly. “I have some idea.” And boy, _did_ he. He’d steadfastly refused to pitch in on Hammer projects for over five years now.

“I’m just running consult,” Clint continued. “Pointing out weak spots in their security, you get the idea.” He sighed. “But they’re either acting like, a) I’m gonna knock the place over when I’m done, or like, b) I’m personally insulting them for their friggin security issues. I mean shit, the dumbasses leave windows open on their production floor.” He gestured widely, sketching out a rough rectangle in the air. “They’re five by five feet windows, Phil, and don’t have sensors on ‘em, and they’re worried about _break-ins_.” He made a disgusted noise, arms still outstretched. “I didn’t know people that dumb actually existed.”

Phil stared at him. “You deserve a drink,” he decided.

Clint blinked and dropped his hands into his lap. “You don’t have—”

Phil shut him up with a look and pulled a tulip glass from beneath the bar. He paused for a moment, his hand hovering over one tap, but then dropped it to the one next to it instead, carefully angling the glass so it filled slow.

“Triple IPA,” he announced, dropping the glass square in front of Clint, who was now looking unduly interested. Phil took a breath. “You’re partial to hops, right?”

“Very much so,” Clint assured him, tugging the glass a little closer. He took a deep breath. “Damn, Phil.”

“It’s a big beer,” Phil warned. “That’s the only one you’re getting, and drink it slow.”

“Sir, yessir,” Clint fired back before taking a miniscule sip. “ _Damn_ , Phil,” he repeated. “It’s like I got punched in the face with a friggin pine tree.”

Phil affected a concerned grimace and made to reach across the bar. “If it’s too much…”

Clint pulled the glass closer in alarm. “Stay away from my beer.” He took another liberal sip before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

Phil never comped drinks, because brewing quality beer tended to be a pricey endeavor and he had to stay afloat somehow. Hell, not even Nick drank free. So you can imagine his surprise when his mouth opened—seemingly of its own accord—and he found himself saying, “Don’t worry about it. On the house.”

Clint’s grin lit up the room, and Phil was pretty sure that it was worth it.

~

Clint’s double-take at finding Phil sitting at the head of the conference table was entirely worth the hassle of putting on a suit and trekking down to Shield offices. Nick kicked him surreptitiously under the table, smirking around the eye patch. It was a subtle look.

“No one knows Stark better than Phil Coulson,” Nick announced once the room at large had settled into seats around the meeting table. There were close to two dozen bodies filling the room today, all slated for protection/interception detail for Stark’s latest foray into insanity, this one car-race and Monaco-based. Phil’d received files on every one of them, and absolutely had not lingered over Clint’s file more than any other. He also didn’t smile at the way Clint had made a beeline for the seat immediately to Phil’s left, and then sulked when Kate Bishop stole it from him a moment before he could sit down.

“You got any questions about Stark,” Nick was going on, “sure as fuck don’t ask me; I can’t stand the man.” He clapped Phil on the back. “Phil’s your guy for those little picky questions. His life work—”

“Not my life work,” Phil demurred.

Nick continued on without pause. “—is knowing every. little. quirk. So!” He nodded firmly. “He’ll give you your assignments for the next week, and then lead a little weapons demo we’ve got set up on the range. You’ll want to pay attention. There will be a test.” He grinned and stood. “Coulson’s your god this week, ladies and gentlemen. Worship him dutifully. He is one vengeful motherfucker.” And with that he was gone, sweeping out of the conference room in a flurry of melodramatic black leather.

Phil did not pinch his nose between his fingers, because he was a better man than that. Instead, he carefully divided the assignment files into three piles in front of him. “Clay, you’re my number one. You’ll run interference with boots on the ground, and liaise with Mr. Hogan.” He held out the largest stack of files while Clay Quartermain—a skinny Texan with a sharp smile and killer range scores whom Phil thoroughly enjoyed working with—stood and accepted them. He barked off the fifteen names of the assigned bodyguards in his insolent twang and tossed the files to the corresponding agents.

Phil watched the show, noting who scrambled after their papers and who caught them deftly, and knowing Clay was doing the same. He trusted his judgment of where to concentrate them, who to buddy up, who could function alone. Most of these men and women were new to Phil; it had been awhile since Nick had called him in for consult.

“Jasper,” Phil went on once Clay was done. “You’re on press.” He passed over a stack of five folders, silently amused by how Jasper’s face already scowling behind his oversized glasses.

“Goddamn it,” he groused, but accepted the files easily. “You’re a motherfucker, Phil. You know I hate press duty.”

“You’ll liaise with Ms. Potts,” Phil tossed out mildly.

Jasper perked up. “You know what?” he said, suddenly grinning. “I changed my mind. I believe I will buy you a donut.”

“Don’t hurt yourself showing all that gratitude,” Phil told him while several agents badly smothered snorts of laughter. While Jasper clearly restrained from flipping Phil the bird, Phil just smiled blandly and refocused on the remaining two files in front of him.

“Bishop and Barton,” he said, sliding their files in their direction over the table. Kate snatched them up and handed Clint his over her shoulder. “You’re on sniper duty, and will report directly to me. We’ll talk more once we get to Monaco. For now,” he looked around the room, once again addressing everyone, “let’s head down to the range. R&D’s developed a couple fancy new rounds for some fancy new guns.”

Clint was at his side the second everyone stood to begin filing from the room. “The hell, Phil,” he demanded, but he was grinning.

“I told you I consult,” Phil smiled back. “And Nick’s right, as much as it galls me to admit it. I do know Stark better than anyone on staff here.” He looked down at his feet, focusing for a moment on the matte black stud that emerged from his left trouser leg in place of a shoe. He could move easier with this particular leg than with his usual one, which was important for the range demo he was about to give. “I’ve worked with him extensively, both for Shield and privately.”

Clint glanced down too, understanding dawning on his face when he realized Phil was wearing the running leg. “So tell me about these guns,” he said, changing the subject and leaning in a little. Phil started to lead the way from the room, trailing after the last of the other agents.

“Now Barton,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

Two hours later, Clint stopped him from leaving the range with a hand to Phil’s shoulder. Clint was breathing a little harder than usual, and Phil inclined an eyebrow.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise,” Clint parroted sarcastically. “Like maybe that you’re the best fucking shot I’ve seen—besides me and Kate, maybe—in my entire goddamn life?”

Phil smirked. “Keeps the mystery alive.”

Clint leaned in, his air from his words tickling the side of Phil’s neck. “You made me get hard at work, you asshole.” And then he was gone before Phil could even react.

They didn’t see much of each other in Monaco; Clint kept to the rooftops while Phil trailed resignedly after Stark, but everything went well. And while Phil wouldn’t credit their success solely to Clint’s comfortable drawl in his ear, he was self-aware enough to know that it certainly helped.

~

“Phil?”

Phil paused in his picking through the legion of cold remedies on display in the pharmacy section of the local Wal-Mart and looked up. Clint was standing at the end of the aisle, looking incredulous.

Wrong-footed, Phil blinked several times before managing a hollow ‘hello,’ which rapidly dissolved into yet another attack from the hacking cough that had afflicted him for the last week. The warm, callused hand that slipped around his upper arm for support was the only thing that kept him upright, and when he finally regained his breath, Clint’s incredulity had shifted in marked concern.

“Dying?” Clint asked, his free hand now rubbing a small circle high on Phil’s back.

Phil huffed out a weak laugh. “I don’t think that ‘cold’ properly does this plague justice.” He gestured lamely toward the mass of cold medicine. “And I ran out of cough syrup, and my doctor won’t re-up my prescription until I come in, but they don’t have an opening for a couple days and the nurse told me that booze wasn’t a cough suppressant… so…” He blinked again, slowly. “I don’t like going to the doctor, anyway. Not after…”

Clint nodded when it became apparent that Phil’d lost his train of thought. “I’m taking you home.” He turned, keeping his hand still wrapped loose and supporting around Phil’s arm, and deftly plucked a couple over-the-counter bottles of something bright orange and green from the shelves. “Did you drive yourself?”

“Yes?” Phil answered. Clint sighed and held out his hand.

“Keys.” When Phil was hesitant in relinquishing them, Clint sighed, much put-upon, and wiggled his fingers demandingly. “I took the bus, I’m driving you home, what if you have a coughing fit and crash your damn car, I’d never forgive myself.”

“Uh-huh.” Phil didn’t see much point in arguing further, as things were starting to get a little blurry anyway—it was entirely possible that the fever was coming back—and so pulled his car keys from his pocket and handed them over. “Lola’s a little temperamental, though. Treat her like a lady.”

Clint blinked uncomprehendingly at him, and oh, Phil’d probably never told him about the car. The Car. Phil’s Car. Phil giggled a little.

“Right,” Clint said decisively, after a long moment (presumably) questioning Phil’s sanity. “No more of that. Let’s buy these and get out of here before you pass out.” He led Phil toward the registers, grumbling to himself about grown men who can’t take care of themselves when they’re sick.

Phil blinked once at the registers and opened his eyes only to find himself buckled securely into Lola’s passenger seat, Clint relaxed and calm as he made a corner, one hand resting on the gearshift, the other at 12:00 on the wheel. Another blink transported Phil to the parking lot outside his apartment; another sent him into his living room and onto his couch.

“Drink this,” Clint told him, holding up a small medicine cup full of something neon orange. Phil swallowed the medicine dutifully under Clint’s watchful observation, and accepted a couple small white-and-red pills and a glass of water immediately after.

“Dayquil for the cough, Tylenol for the fever, bed for rest,” Clint ordered, and Phil let himself be levered off the couch and led down the hall toward his bedroom. He collapsed gratefully onto his bed, while Clint knelt and undid his laces.

“Why’re you…” Phil managed to half-ask, but it was apparently enough for Clint to glance up, a look of consternation on his face.

“You’re my friend, Phil. And you shouldn’t have to be by yourself right now, let alone driving around the city.” He looked down at Phil’s socked feet, then gently pulled them off. “You want me to help you with your leg?”

“No,” Phil said quickly. The Tylenol must have been kicking in; he felt a little more lucid. “No, I’ve got it.” It was bad enough that Clint had seen him listing and sick; the last thing he needed was the pity that would surely follow the removal of his leg.

Clint nodded and stood, ruffling the hair at the back of his head for a moment before shooting Phil a tentative smile. “Okay, so, I don’t really want to leave you alone… I don’t wanna run the risk of you getting back in your car if your fever doesn’t break.” He hesitated. “I’ll stay, unless, uh, you don’t want me to…”

“You can stay,” Phil said. “Or, please? Stay?”

The smile Clint gifted him was pure relief. “I’ll stay. You just lie down and shout if you need anything, okay?”

“Right,” Phil agreed, and closed his eyes. He just needed to rest for a second.

One second dragged out a bit, and the next time Phil opened his eyes he was tucked securely under the blankets on his bed, stripped down to his skivvies, and sans prosthetic. He pushed up to his elbows, idly noted that his head didn’t feel like it was in danger of doing an impersonation of grenade, and glanced at the clock. Six pm. Not bad; he’d slept for a few hours.

“Back with us, I see,” came a voice from his doorway, and he turned to find Clint leaning against the jamb, a kitchen towel draped over his shoulder and a smile on his face.

“It’s only been…” Phil protested, and Clint raised an eyebrow.

“’Bout 26 hours,” he informed Phil. “Dude, it’s Friday.”

Oh. Phil dragged a hand over his face. “Well, damn.”

“Even the best of us are still human,” Clint intoned sagely. Phil shot him a look and Clint grinned. “Melinda called, I told her you’re out sick, she told me that she’d have my balls if I took advantage, and I told her that fevers weren’t a big turn-on for me. It was a good conversation.”

“No doubt,” Phil said dryly.

Clint nodded. “I made you soup. And some bread. You want me to bring it in?”

Phil considered this, and decided after a moment that he’d rather not eat soup in bed. “I’ll, uh. I’ll come out. I feel a little better.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “Need anything?”

“No, I’m good.” Phil pulled back the blankets and swung his leg over the side of the bed, standing and balancing with practiced ease. He reached out and grabbed his crutch from where it was sitting next to his nightstand as usual, fitting it under his arm and turning toward the door before he realized what he’d just done.

He _never_ let anyone see him like this. He always put a leg on if there was someone around—either the usual lifelike-molded one or the running one would do—because the scar that capped the end of his thigh wasn’t pretty. It stuck out from the leg of his boxers, a mess of white and pink tissue that had made more than one person’s eyes widen in pity and disgust.

Phil took a sharp breath, but Clint, who’d been turning to lead the way from the bedroom, just looked confused.

“You comin’? Bread’s still warm, you lucky duck.” And then he smiled, and looked Phil in the eye.

“Yes,” Phil said. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

Clint was dishing up two bowls of delicious-smelling soup by the time Phil made it to the kitchen. “Grab that blue bottle when you come over,” Phil told him, and plopped into his usual chair. The wood was cold through his boxers, but it felt good. Maybe he still had a bit of fever lingering.

Clint raised an eyebrow but did as he was told, juggling the bowls, bottle, cups, and spoons with apparent ease as he made his way toward the table. “What’s this?” he asked, setting down his armful.

Phil leaned in and inhaled the best he could through his stuffed nose. The steam off the soup smelled better than anything he could easily recall. “Mead.”

Clint paused where he was about to start filling the second glass with the amber liquid from the bottle and leveled Phil an unimpressed look. “No mixing alcohol with Dayquil.”

Phil shot him his own unimpressed look right back. “What do you think I was using instead of cough medicine? I was out, wasn’t I?” He let a small, teasing smile drift onto his face. “Besides, that’s an unmarked glass bottle in the house of a notorious brewer. What did you _think_ it was?”

“I don’t know,” Clint shot back, though Phil noted how he was clutching his own full glass close to his chest. “Juice?”

“For only the broadest interpretation of juice,” Phil deadpanned, and then waved a magnanimous hand in Clint’s direction. “Drink up, Agent Barton.”

Clint grinned at him and took a liberal sip. “Damn, Phil—”

“I know, I know. Ambrosia.” Phil smiled a little to himself and took a spoonful of soup. It was chicken noodle, and he felt even better the second he got a bite in his stomach. “You know Thor Odinson?” Clint nodded, so Phil went on. “Let me tell you about the _trials_ I had to complete for him to give me the recipe…”

~

“Come out there,” Melinda ordered as she dropped off a bag laden with what Phil sincerely hoped was a burger (no mustard, no pickles) and Cajun fries. He was buried in his books, inventory spreadsheets up on his computer, and he blinked owlishly at her from behind his thick-rimmed glasses.

“What?”

She shook her head. “You have a sulking patron to appease and you’ve been back here for going on eight hours. Dealing with the spent grain can wait.”

Phil nudged his glasses up a little further on his nose. “No, the farm that’s been buying the grain is—” he trailed off under the force of her aggressively unenthusiastic glare. “Right. You’re right.” He sighed and directed his gaze sightlessly at the bag of food, letting his mind clear for a moment, letting him replay the conversation so far. “Wait, sulking patron? What’s wrong?”

“One of the Shield flunkies,” she said, turning to go. “The one you flirt with. I can’t handle the puppy dog eyes anymore, Phil, and if he asks me one more time where you are, I just might kill him.” She raised an admonishing finger. “I know how. I know _fifteen ways_ how without having to cross the counter.”

“I know you know how,” Phil agreed, now smiling, because Clint was asking about him. Clint, who had been incommunicado in the Ukraine for the last month and who was apparently finally back. Melinda was right; spent grains could wait. He pushed to stand, wobbled a little (note to self: don’t forget to reattach your leg while within eyesight of Melinda May. The skeptical eyebrow actually causes second-degree burns) and sat back down. “I’ll be there in a minute,” he sighed apologetically. Melinda made no further comment, just inclined her eyes momentarily toward the heavens and then walked out.

Phil wolfed down the burger, ignored the fries (which were not Cajun seasoned, probably out of spite) and then took his time strapping his leg together, adjusting the padding while letting his mind wander. He had a nitro scotch ale on tap right now that he’d like Clint to try—if he hadn’t zeroed in on it already, which was likely. And maybe, just maybe, Phil could sit on the other side of the bar today and have a drink himself. He _had_ been working for hours, and he certainly wasn’t going tend bar tonight. He deserved to relax a little.

So it was with a small smile on his face that he locked the door to his office behind him and stepped out into the bar proper. It was full but not crowded tonight—it _was_ Friday—and the atmosphere was pleasant. All the tables inside were full, while a few intrepid souls were braving the cooling night air to sit on the patio, and the bartop was standing-room only. And so it was that it took a moment of scanning the crowd before Phil was able to spot the familiar shock of blond hair at one end of the bar.

The curl of anticipation that settled tight and nervous in his stomach when he saw Clint was ridiculous. They were friends, is all, and he shouldn’t look forward to seeing him this much. But it was what it was, and it _had_ been awhile, and so Phil fought his smile down into a less manic grin as he walked across the floor toward his favorite customer.

The crowd parted enough as Phil walked that he was able to take stock of Clint’s companions tonight: Bobbi and Hunter (who were sitting next to each other, so perhaps were on the upswing of their on-again-off-again cycle) two Koenigs, Fitz and Simmons, Maria, and an unfamiliar redhead.

Whose hand was resting proprietorially on the small of Clint’s back.

Phil froze.

It’s not—the ‘thing’ they had that wasn’t really a thing. It was just flirting. It’s not like he had any claim on Clint’s attention. At all. Really.

Someone bumped awkwardly into Phil’s side, _Sorry, sorry_. Phil waved them off and changed course, angling to head behind the bar and ignoring Mel’s murderous disapproval.

“This is not what I meant by ‘take a break,’ Phil,” she hissed as he snatched a glass from beneath the bartop. Phil ignored her more pointedly, focusing instead on pulling himself a healthy pour of the scotch ale before stilling and watching the nitro carbonation settle. She glanced over at the group and then touched his shoulder, and when he finally looked at her, some of her icy indifference had thawed. “Phil, I don’t think it’s what—”

“Everything seems fine out here,” he interrupted her, his unflappable calm turned up to eleven. She narrowed her eyes, though he found that he couldn’t quite meet them. “I have to finish the inventory and take out the hops from the saison before I go home tonight.”

“The hops should wait until tomorrow,” Mel pointed out. She was right, but Phil wasn’t going to listen. He’d find something else to do in the warehouse, then. Clean something. Plan the next beer. Count boxes. _Something_. Melinda sighed. “You’re being hailed,” she said, nodding toward the Shield contingent.

Phil’s fingers tightened minutely around his glass, but he fixed a pleasant expression on his face and ambled over.

“Hello, Phil!” Fitz and Simmons chirped in unison. Phil felt this smile turn a shade more honest, especially bolstered by being safe on his side of the bar.

“Hello, all,” he said. “Having a good night?”

“It’s Friday, isn’t it?” Hunter asked, offering up his glass. Phil clinked it agreeably. “Fridays are always good.” Bobbi elbowed him with a smile as the Koenigs voiced their assent, while the redhead eyed him warily. Clint smiled—nervously, Phil noted—and Maria inclined her head.

“Mel said you were having a nervous breakdown in your office.”

Phil allowed himself a long blink and shook his head slightly. “That would be an exaggeration. The farm I sell my spent grain to has unexpectedly decided to go in another direction, and it’s playing havoc with my budget.” This resulted in concerned looks all around, so Phil hastily amended, “It’s not an issue, really. Just a headache.” He raised his glass. “Hence the break.”

The conversation slid easily then into an argument of whether cows get drunk after eating spent grain (they do not) and resulted in Phil somehow being talked into sponsoring a beer dinner next month with drinks paired with food from some of the local restaurants in town.

“It’d be a good way for you to experience a broad swath of the city at once,” Bobbi told the redhead, who’d so far remained quiet. Now, she just nodded, smiling slightly. Bobbi blinked. “Oh, shit, Phil, this is Natasha. Natasha, Phil. She’s new at Shield, Clint brought her in. She’s Clint’s—” and paused, just for a second “—friend.”

That pause fit an entire herd of elephants. It had been hard for the Shield specialists to miss the flirting that had been happening between Clint and Phil over the last months, and for a brief moment, the awkwardness was a palpable thing.

Phil shifted his glass to his left hand and stuck out his right. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Natasha.” He mostly meant it. 75%.

She smiled and reached out, too. Her fingers were cool and callused, her nails sharp. “I’ve heard a great deal about you,” she said. Her accent was so slight it was barely there, something Eastern Bloc; Phil couldn’t be sure over the dull roar of the Friday night crowd. “I’m immensely pleased to see that you and your product both live up to the hype.” Clint flushed scarlet, but Phil couldn’t look at him right now.

The group chatted for a few more minutes, just long enough for Phil to finish his beer, and for Clint to grow noticeably more uncomfortable. Taking pity on them both, Phil made some vaguely weak excuse after tucking his glass into the dishwasher and getting a round of refills for everyone before turning to go, heading for the warehouse. He didn’t have his head in the game right now; he’d be useless with numbers. The books would have to wait, so it looked like cleaning was on the docket tonight. He could exhaust himself and forget his disappointment and hurt.

He was almost home free when a plaintive, “Phil, wait,” came from across the room, and Phil paused just before the entrance to the back hallway that led to his warehouse. Damn Clint, he couldn’t just let it go.

When Clint caught up to him, they weren’t close enough to the bartop that the Shield group could hear them talking, but they _were_ in plain sight. With the exception of Natasha, and for a bunch of security experts, they certainly weren’t doing a good job of not appearing to watch this little encounter.

Phil crossed his arms defensively. “You need something?” he asked, a little harsher than he’d intended. Clint winced.

“Look, I’m sorry for springing this on you, but there’s an explanation—”

Phil raised a hand, cutting him off. “I don’t need to hear it, Clint. We’re not dating. We were barely flirting.” He sighed, suddenly exhausted by all the pretense. “Look, we’re… I think we’re friends, and your girlfriend seems very nice. But I’m not going to say I’m happy for you, because right now I’m not. I thought—it doesn’t matter what I thought. Just give me a couple days and everything will be fine, okay?”

“But—” Clint protested.

“Don’t,” Phil ordered gently. “It’s not a big deal. I mean, I’m used to it.” And with that, he turned and pushed through the door, heading into the warehouse.

~

The sour was done.

Phil was grinning, his lips puckered from the sip he’d just pulled from the oak barrels that had been sitting for the last year and a half in the back of his warehouse, taunting him. Sours were finicky and took an inordinate amount of time to brew, but were well worth the wait. Something fruity, and tart, and crisp, with the sharpest finish—he loved the things wild yeast did to his brews.

He never bottled this particular beer, though he supposed he was well enough known in the microbrewery circuit by now that he’d do brisk business with it if he did. But no, the sour was rare enough that he liked to keep it purely on tap. No buying his baby at the stores; people had to come in to get a taste of this one.

But for now, he could spend the day setting up his kegging equipment. Maybe he could send a keg or two to his favorite area restaurant—the one with the fifty taps. He’d see how fast they sold out. If there was enough demand, he could brew a bigger batch next time. 

He was still smiling to himself over his pet project when the soft “Phil?” carried through the warehouse and made him stop in his tracks. He turned to find who else but Clint, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, an unreadable expression on his face.

“You’re not supposed to be back here,” Phil said quickly, which, okay, was true, but not really an issue.

Clint frowned. “Melinda said—”

“What do you want?” Phil snapped, which was entirely unfair, but even though it had been weeks, the hurt still hadn’t dissipated. It was ridiculous, and Phil knew it. And yet.

Clint sighed. “Natasha is not my girlfriend. I’m gay, Phil. Never touched a woman in my life.”

And now Phil was confused.

“Yeah, thought that would work,” Clint muttered before pacing closer. He stopped just a couple feet away. “She’s my partner. We worked together before Fury recruited me. She’s…” he hesitated. “Closer than a sister. More than…” he shook his head. “She is the most important person in my life, and I was finally able to get her out of Russia and safe here. You can forgive me that I didn’t want to let her go for a little bit. And then those assholes I work with assumed the wrong thing and everything got all fucked up.”

Phil watched him. Clint swallowed nervously.

“I shoulda said something. I _know_ I shoulda said something, but when I’m around you, all friggin logical thought just—” he made an exploding gesture at the side of his head before shoving his fist back into his coat. “Pff. Gone. How the fuck do you _do_ that?”

“Uh,” Phil said, eloquently. “Sorry?”

Clint huffed out a quiet laugh and pulled his hands from his pockets, the better to gesture with. “Look, I like you. I mean, I know I’d made it pretty clear, but then I fucked it all up, but I was hoping…” He made an inarticulate noise of frustration. “Just that you’re like this, this _badass_ that I can’t even wrap my head around, and you make all these awesome drinks and act all ever-suffering, but then you come and shoot circles around all the people I work with and run a friggin op for Tony Stark just, _flawlessly_ , and you’re smart and snarky and I don’t even know why you’ve ever given me the time of day ‘cause I _know_ you’ve read my file—”

“Do you want a beer?” Phil asked, a little desperately. It was enough to derail Clint, who froze, looking wide-eyed and a little manic, his arms thrown out in the center of Phil’s tiny warehouse.

There was a moment of clarity.

Phil liked Clint here.

Not the wide-eyed and manic bit, obviously, but the in-Phil’s-warehouse bit, the bit where Clint looked perfectly at ease in the chill of the unheated building. Like he fit, like there was a space here that had been lacking until Clint stepped into it.

“A beer,” Phil repeated. “It’s new. Right out of the barrel.”

“Phil,” Clint began, but Phil shook his head, briefly wishing that he’d screwed Clint after the first night they’d met. Because if he’d done that, then he probably wouldn’t have gotten to know him, and wouldn’t have realized how much he _liked_ him, and actually, okay. This may have turned out alright.  

So Phil said slowly, “No. I like you, too. More than is healthy, probably, but I’m not the most…” He hesitated.

“Open?” Clint supplied, finally dropping his arms. Phil nodded gratefully.

“That works. I don’t have relationships. I mean, I have Nick, and maybe Melinda and Maria, and sometimes the Shield idiots. But everyone’s life is very… not mine. The only constant I’ve had for a long time is beer. Which is probably my fault, but… So.” He cleared his throat and gestured to the barrel that held his baby. “Would you like to have a beer?”

Clint’s face relaxed into a wide smile. “Yeah, Phil. I’d like that.”

~

“Okay, so stir it a couple more times, then we’ll put it in the ice bath. Then we’ve got half an hour or so while it cools before we transfer it to the carboy.”

Clint and Natasha both nodded along with Phil’s instructions, Clint stirring the ten-gallon pot in front of him with a large metal spoon while Natasha closely inspected a bud that she’d stolen from the pile of hops. “After the carboy?” she asked.

Phil took a moment to answer, as he was supervising the stirring somewhat distractedly. Who would blame him? Brew days—even miniscule batches like today’s—were a hot business, and this particular brew involved Clint sweaty and in a tank top.

It was a good day.

“Uh, there’s…” Phil trailed off, stymied by the bead of sweat rolling down Clint’s temple. Natasha rolled her eyes and smacked him on the arm. Phil blinked and rallied. “A week or two, let the yeast work. Then we bottle and wait a little longer, then drink.”

“Sounds good,” Clint agreed before passing the spoon off to Natasha. She took it with an air of gravitas and gave several strong stirs, looking immensely pleased with herself. They’d requested a pomegranate kölsh as their first try at brewing alongside Phil, and it had certainly been an adventure. The two of them were an ideal pair at the Farmers Market, with Clint’s sharp eyes and Natasha’s bartering savvy, and Phil’d already decided to drag them both along on his next trip for one of the big batch beers.

This was also Phil’s first time spending extended time with Natasha, because Clint had insisted that the two most important people in his life get along. Despite their (mutual) worry, everything had gone swimmingly, and Natasha had opened up enough that Phil was fairly certain he’d have an ex-KGB assassin letting herself into his apartment whenever she damn well felt like it. He was remarkably fine with that arrangement.

They busied themselves over the next few minutes with potholders and ice baths, and then collapsed on Phil’s couch, pointedly ignoring the wreck they’d made of Phil’s kitchen. It was nice, actually—Phil hadn’t brewed at home in years and it was reminding him nostalgically of his first disastrous tries at his hobby-cum-life’s work. Granted, the company was better this time around, and the beer would be drinkable. Improvements.

“Dog Cops,” Natasha announced as she plucked the remote from the coffee table. “Also, Phil, how is it possible that my arms are sore?”

“It’s the repetitive circular movements,” Clint answered for him. “You’re not used to the stirring motion, and really, it’s more in the wrist, you know…” He waggled his eyebrows for emphasis.

“Nope,” Natasha decided. “Absolutely not. I will not be subjected to penis jokes for the remainder of the evening, thank you. I am going to go harass Bobbi.” She stood and extended a hand toward Clint. “Wallet.”

Clint screwed up his face in disbelief. “What now? Get your own—”

“You owe me ice cream and your guest pass to your secret gym for that joke.”

“I’d have to agree,” Phil murmured. “It was a terrible joke.”

“Traitor,” Clint accused Phil, aghast, but he pulled his wallet from his pocket and handed it over with no more fuss. Natasha rifled quickly through it, taking ten bucks and a keycard, and then handed it back.

“Be good tonight, boys,” she ordered. “No doing anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That almost broadens my options,” Clint observed.

Natasha rolled her eyes, leaned down and kissed Phil on the cheek, and breezed out the door. “До свидания, жопы,” she called cheerfully. “Goodbye, Phil. I’ll see you next week.”

“Manicures,” Phil agreed, and the door shut behind her. Clint eyed him mistrustfully and Phil shrugged. “She is very persuasive.”

Clint snorted out a laugh and leaned back against the couch, stretching out one arm to settle behind Phil’s head. Phil closed his eyes, leaned into Clint’s side, and let himself drift a little, comfortable with Clint’s heat a soothing brand against his chest.

“Thanks,” Clint said after a moment longer of companionable silence, rocking his head to the side to give Phil a sloppy smile. Phil blinked himself fully awake and arched his brow.  

“What for?”

“The beer lesson, the day you took off for me, for being awesome, for liking Nat, for…” Clint trailed off and then more quietly, said, “For giving me a chance and not pushing me away when I fell for you so damn hard.”

How else was Phil supposed to respond to that? He reached over and grabbed the collar of Clint’s shirt, dragging him just that much closer so he could kiss him.

“Yeah,” Clint moaned into the kiss, and then pushed Phil over, rolling them and laying them out flat on the couch in one smooth moment. He was equally quick in shoving their pants aside—not that Phil was trying to hinder him at all—to line them up and stroke them together, and Phil’s breath stuttered at the feel of Clint’s calluses rubbing against certain sensitive areas.

But then Clint was pulling away, grabbing Phil’s hand to yank him off the couch, and practically frog-marching him down the hall toward Phil’s bedroom. Their bedroom. Phil’s bedroom. Whatever, it wasn’t official yet, but it was rapidly becoming theirs.

“You did this thing,” Clint murmured in Phil’s ear before pushing him down flat on his back on the bed.

“Thing?” Phil asked. He crossed his arms under his head, unhelpful as he watched Clint yanking at his pants, only to fling them across the room when he freed them from Phil’s thighs. He hesitated for a split second and then set to work on the buckle that held Phil’s leg in place, his expression one of utmost concentration.

Phil tried hard not to react; this whole thing had only been going on for a little over a month and their sexual escapades so far had been limited to a few partially-clothed handjobs and some heavy petting. This was new territory. He reached out and covered one of Clint’ hands with his own. “You don’t need to do that.”

Clint looked up at him, uncertainty fluttering across his face. “I want to? I mean, I won’t if you’re not comfortable with me doing this, but I thought you’d be more… uh, comfortable?”

Phil couldn’t argue with that. “I would be. But it’s not—”

“I love you, Phil,” Clint said suddenly, and Phil closed his mouth with a snap, his eyes wide. “You may be a prickly bastard that won me through booze and badassery, but your scars don’t worry me.” He slid the prosthetic off and leaned it against the wall by the side of the bed. “Everything about you is just perfect.”

“Shut up,” Phil murmured, and dragged Clint up his body to make sure he did just that.

They lost themselves for a while to the slick-slide of kisses, of thighs pressing, fingers exploring, and Phil somehow ended up backward in bed, his foot at the head and with Clint slowly moving in his lap, his fingers digging bruises into Phil’s hip and shoulder.

“You feel good,” Clint said into the quiet of the room, his words strangled and tense with anticipation. “God you feel good.”

“So do you,” Phil told him, and angled his thrusts, pressing deep and slow. “I love you so damn much.”

Clint’s hooded gaze sharpened and he grinned as he twisted his hips. “Doesn’t count when you’re balls deep, Coulson.”

“I should’ve never poured you that first beer,” Phil growled, resettling his hands on his Clint’s hips. Clint just grinned wider, so Phil snapped his hips up while tugging down. “The trouble you give me.”

Clint’s response was lost in the slide of skin.

Later, sacked out and sprawled together in bed, and with Clint’s head resting on Phil’s shoulder, Phil poked the tanned side that had settled into soft breathing under his arm. “I meant it.”

Clint snuffed sleepily at Phil’s neck. “Yeah, I know.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I homebrew, and Budweiser’s Superbowl ‘macro-brew’ ad pissed me off, so I wrote this. And then I hemmed and hawed over whether to actually post it, but it’s written, so why not?
> 
> Anyway, because Phil Coulson is a BAMF, he obviously brews only the best beer. All the brews he gives Clint to drink are my personal favorites, descriptions of which can be found at the following links. If you are of a legal drinking age, (and can find them) you should try them out! Everyone’s life is better with good booze. :D Please drink responsibly!
> 
> My favorite beer of all time, [The Sour](http://www.newbelgium.com/beer/detail.aspx?id=4e583fd6-95e4-4ea0-908c-4436f5dc8fa8), New Belgium’s La Folie
> 
> And then in no particular order:  
> [The Porter](http://lefthandbrewing.com/beers/black-jack-porter/), Left Hand’s Blackjack  
> [The Scotch Ale](http://brew.oskarblues.com/ob-beers/year-round/old-chub/), Oskar Blues’ Old Chub. Drink it nitro for +5xp.   
> [The Barley Wine](http://averybrewing.com/our-ales/hog-heaven/), Avery’s Hog Heaven  
> [The Triple IPA](http://russianriverbrewing.com/brews/pliny-the-younger/), Russian River’s Pliny the Younger.  
> [The Chocolate Milk Stout](http://odellbrewing.com/beer/lugene-chocolate-milk-stout/), O’Dell’s Lugene. Beer floats really are good, you guys.   
> [The Mead](http://www.redstonemeadery.com/store/product.php?productid=3&cat=0&page=1&feature), Redstone. And while tasty, it’s inadvisable to use alcohol as cold medicine. 
> 
> The pomegranate kölsh is what I’ve currently got brewing, and I don’t know where to find it except at my house.


End file.
